


Of All the Times

by williamastankova



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Bad Flirting, First Kiss, Flirting, Getting Together, Good Omens References, Historical References, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), It takes thousands of years, M/M, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-08
Updated: 2019-06-08
Packaged: 2020-04-23 04:23:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19143499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/williamastankova/pseuds/williamastankova
Summary: A short compliation of the times throughout history Crowley decided it was a good idea to pop up and flirt with Aziraphale.





	Of All the Times

He's beyond terrified. He's paralysed by fear, the sensation spreading throughout his body, swelling in his chest and flourishing down to his toes. He knows God is just - there's no faltering in his faith, no wavering confidence in Her - but this time around, he does feel just a little like a stuck horse. All he can do is swallow his pride and watch, trusting that She has the best interests of mankind at heart - and he's positive that she does.

He's bouncing from one foot to the other when somebody slides in next to him. He casts an absent look over, and finds the demon Crawley beside him, his long red hair blazing like the hot flushing Aziraphale's face. His presence almost doesn't register in the angel's mind, but when he starts thinking about it, he realises how much he doesn't want to speak to him right now, because he knows what he's like. Even so, the universe, liking to play tricks on him like this, makes Crawley open his mouth anyway, letting his words fall out oh-so carelessly.

"Front row seat, eh, angel?"

Aziraphale dislikes this nickname at best. It seems to fond, too familiar, far too close for an angel and a demon. They're supposed to hate each other, or at the very least hold mild disdain for each other, ignoring each other as much as possible. Aziraphale is completely sure that they're not meant to be buddy-buddy, giving one another pet names. That's just one step away from braiding each other's hair at a sleepover.

"Crawley," he tries to remain civil, but the pleasantness seeps into his tone just the littlest bit. He can't contain the surprising affection he holds for the man, as much as he wants to; there's just something about him. "What a surprise to see you here."

"Couldn't miss it," Crawley's smile isn't wholly convincing, and looks a little vindictive, then Aziraphale supposes this is a side-effect of being a creature formed from darkness and such, "You're looking lovely for the occasion. What is the occasion again?"

Crawley furrows his brows in what Aziraphale hopes is feigned forgetfulness, then the latter responds, tone rather stale, "The flooding of the world."

Crawley's mouth forms a perfect 'o' shape and he nods in agreement, looking onwards, his long hair blowing just slightly in the wind. Aziraphale takes just a moment to watch him, and his sick mind regards that, for a demon and former-snake, he is rather beautiful, almost ethereal, in his own devilish way. The vibrance of his hair is peculiar - certainly something Aziraphale hasn't seen before, and something he finds he quite likes. In a short moment, however, the angel forces himself to look away, grimacing painfully.

He doesn't know quite where else to look, so he sets his eyes on a grazing unicorn, figuring it's a safe enough sight to rest on. It looks peaceful, like the stereotypical image of heaven you might expect to see in human children's bright minds. Aziraphale doesn't quite know what's going through his mind, but as long as it's anything but the demon stood right beside him, he thinks it's a good train of thought, even if not a coherent one.

As all good things, however, this bliss must come to a staggering end. Suddenly, Crawley is speaking again, lower this time, as though directly into his ear. His voice sounds like melted chocolate - the kind straight from God's palm itself - but Aziraphale's knees absolutely do not buckle. If anything, he's shocked that Crawley has the audacity to keep yapping on at such a crucial time in history.

"We should go somewhere," he says, voice a whisper, obviously not trying to alert anybody else to their master plan. He doesn't even turn his body to Aziraphale as he talks to him, merely leans over a little and speaks. "Somewhere nice, together. Could be good fun."

For an angel, it's rare to misconstrue things in a sexual way. Their minds aren't wired to go there very often, and though they know of such things it's a general rule that it's unconventional and rude to insinuate such things. This is why there is no unholy doubt in Aziraphale's mind that Crawley's proposal is inappropriate, and it's meant to be that way. His mouth falls open, taken aback, and he looks over at the demon, who's giving him a suggestive side-eye, the chartreuse colour seeming somehow fiery, as though intoxicated by his own words.

"You-" Aziraphale scoffs, refusing to believe what he knows to be true, "You can't be serious."

"Is that a no?"

Crawley's question somehow manages to be sincere and snide. It's not refusing to be rejected, but it's making sure Aziraphale is indeed rejecting him, whilst still giving him the upper hand in the situation. It's brilliant, it's awful, and it's so, so clever. Aziraphale could almost smile, proud, if he weren't still so shocked.

"Absolutely not," Aziraphale confirms, and Crawley shrugs.

"Your loss," he says nonchalantly, then as soon as his eyes fall back to the sight before them, he begins to shout, obviously not engaged in their personal conversation anymore, the secret dropped, dead and gone. "That unicorn's going to make a run for it!"

Aziraphale is shaken, unable to remove his eyes from the demon even long after the reasonable deadline of him being able to. Something about the forwardness and earnestness of the man's words, the blatant suggestion rendered out of thin air, leaving the angel at a loss for many words... it was rather enchanting. Not in the usual way, not how Aziraphale was used to, but most definitely intriguing nonetheless.

Aziraphale was going to have to get to know Crawley a little better.

**

A sad occasion, for everybody involved. Perhaps a little more painful than anything else for Jesus, who was at the current moment having nails driven through his wrists in a grand public spectacle. People were shouting, screaming horrific titles, mocking the messiah, but Aziraphale could do no more than watch. He hadn't even been ordered to be there, let alone to intervene. Lord knows that could change the future forever, a great ripple effect leading to the extinction of mankind as they knew it.

A sound broke him out of his stupor. He scrunched up his face, listening for it again, and surely enough it came. A hissing, rather like that of a snake, pulled him from his nightmarish tangent, and make him look around himself. In little time, his eyes landed on a certain demon, a black cloak encasing his body like a mummy. Aziraphale tilted his head at him, and he began to make his way over to him.

Crawley stopped to stand beside him once more. His long auburn hair had been partially tucked underneath the dark fabric, though half of it cascades down past his shoulders, unable to be contained by the outfit for long. Aziraphale awaited his humorous introduction, as he had no doubt was coming.

"Friend of yours?" He pointed to the man being hoistered onto the cross, somehow not managing to crack a smile at his own joke, as his narcissism had led Aziraphale to believe he would have done.

"Jesus Christ," Aziraphale informed him, though he already knew Crawley knew his name and exactly everything that had happened to him on earth. The demon undoubtedly knew the man's status, purpose, and where he was going next. After all, God had been missing her son greatly since the time he was born, and longed to have him at her side, where, as she put it, 'he belonged'.

"Alright, angel, no need for that. Was just asking a question," Crawley continued his joke for as long as he could, then his face split in half as an enormous smile erupted across his features, painting colour across his face. He looked bright, or rather as bright as a demon could. Aziraphale almost smiled back, but he refrained. "Terrible, isn't it? What they'd do to their own people?"

Aziraphale hummed in agreement, but his mind got caught up once again on the nickname. Surely it wasn't so personal? After all, Crawley was only calling him by what he was. It was hardly as though they were holding hands, skipping down the mid-way streets of purgatory, pronouncing their love for one another, declaring how they would desert their families - good and bad - in order to be together the right way. Hey, that sounded like a good plot to a-

"How come you never talk to me?" Crawley looked over at him, eyes displaying some sort of emotion, even though Aziraphale couldn't place exactly what.

"I do talk to you, I'm talking to you right now," Aziraphale tried to dismiss the topic, batting at the problem to make it go away before it arose and became something noteworthy. "I don't know what you mean."

"You don't, and this doesn't count," Crawley's words dripped something black, something malevolent, though there was an undeniable twinge of hurt that caught Aziraphale's attention. He felt almost guilty, before he remembered what sort of creature he was talking to. "If you want me to get lost, you can just tell me, you know."

Aziraphale caught himself just as he was about to say a direct 'no'. He shook his head, looking at the ground, and tried to drain out the sounds of screaming coming from before him. If only the man knew he had an angel watching over him right now, though admittedly he had a demon there, too. Not a malevolent one, though, Aziraphale could reassure him: not an especially evil one by any means.

"I don't like informality," Aziraphale began his explanation, even though he could have simply extracted himself from the conversation then and there and avoided all future contact with Crawley, "We aren't _supposed_  to like each other. You aren't _supposed_  to give me a nickname."

The sharp laugh that came from the demon both scared Aziraphale and made him want to disappear into thin air, though his words were (thankfully) kind enough that he wanted to stay, even if the sentiment was unintentional. "You don't have to live your life by a rule book, angel. And if you don't like the nickname I give you, think of one you like and I'll call you that instead."

Aziraphale felt his face warm, though his great self-control would not allow it to show with a scarlet blush. "No, I think angel is just alright. Should I call you demon, then, or is Crawley good enough for you?"

"Oh, I actually changed that."

"Changed what?"

"My name," Crawley explained, "It's not Crawley anymore, didn't really do anything for me. It's a bit too squirming-at-your-feet-ish."

"So what is it now?" Aziraphale asked him, turning his body to him properly for the first time since their initial engagement. His eyes squinted automatically as the blinding sun caught them. Still, he did not move back.

"Crowley," the demon pronounced, as though it had been his name all along, "Sounds more powerful, don't you think?"

And then, Aziraphale realised, the people began to disperse. The only ones that lingered were those that had brought bags of rotten fruit and vegetables to throw at the man, and since they weren't about to do such a terrible thing to God's son, the pair of them began to move. They found a secluded spot somewhere, away from the rest of the onlookers, and shared merely a nod before the demon was gone, probably already back in the pits of hell or at his home (wherever that was).

Aziraphale stayed only a moment longer to have a final private second to himself. He began to smile as the word rolled about his head, repeating over and over, like some powerful mantra or incantation. Perhaps if he said it enough, he would summon the man back here. He couldn't decide if he'd love that or hate it.

 _Crowley,_  the word sounded nice in his mind and, though he wouldn't say it was a drastic deviation from the previous name, he found that he rather liked how it rolled off of the tongue.

**

He's seen Crowley intermittently, but he's had a rather busy few millennia. The last time they spoke, they had been rushing into the Battle of Hastings, so there was hardly any time to chat. All the demon had said to him was that he looked strange not carrying a weapon, and that he stuck out like a sore thumb. Then again, he was smiling as he said it, so Aziraphale felt it was unlikely that he meant anything seriously malicious by it.

Now, though, they have more than enough time together. In fact, though he daren't say it aloud, they have a little too much time together, and he's gotten to see the side of Crowley that is perhaps a little too demonesque for his usual tastes. For instance, when he was invited over to his flat, he had bore witness to the demon yelling like a madman at his plants, and then fling himself about the place when he saw something was remotely off. Aziraphale could only slip into the corner and wait, praying they would leave some time soon.

Aside from this, which Aziraphale knew he couldn't actually change (at least not forever), Crowley was exactly who he seemed to be. Or, rather, as he should strictly say, _what_  he was. Cheeky, always irritating, with a sprinkle of charming that never failed to help get them places. Then again, it did always seem that this astounding ability was so often wasted, because it was always directed in the wrong places.

Had Crowley chosen to use it to aid their cause, they would have gotten into key situations and places much more easily by now. However, whenever things went a little askew, Crowley decided it appropriate to throw a tantrum and snap his fingers, causing some sort of disruption or other. Granted, since they had been spending more time together, it seemed like he had rubbed off on him, even just a little. Nowadays, whatever evil Crowley intended to create in the world was subdued, watered down by some good intention. He liked to think that was how they were together: sugar and spice. He was perplexed by their unusual dynamic, and didn't often understand how he should feel about the man.

Even so, they had, as people said, 'bigger fish to fry'. At the moment, there was the overwhelming issue of the end of the world and the Antichrist, so he hardly had time to spare to spend thinking about his _feelings_. This wasn't about him: this was the safety of the world, the balance between good and evil, and if the heavens didn't want to stop the apocalypse, it would have to be up to him and Crowley to do it.

This being said, it wasn't that Crowley didn't routinely irk and bewilder him in the best way, because that was part of his aforementioned charm. At least, it was to him. He liked the outlandish style Crowley chose to have, the classic black garments and clever tinted glasses so they didn't petrify every poor soul they walked past. Part of him even liked Crowley's new hair, though it was so much shorter than he had been used to, as it framed his well-structured face well.

One thing he knew he would never grow to like, however, was the reckless way Crowley drove. In times like these, when Aziraphale had had no other option but to clamber reluctantly into the passenger seat of Crowley's car, fasten himself in tightly and lose all sense of reality when the demon began driving. He raced through the streets like they had somewhere to be (in all honestly, they did, but even so there was no need to go quite so fast. They were suppposed to be undercover, for heaven's sake) and almost kill everybody and everything in their way.

"Please, Crowley-" he so often resorted to begging, finally figuring out after thousands of years that this was the best way to break through his friend's stern, apathetic outer-shell to his slightly less stoic insides. "Please, just slow down, just the littlest bit-"

"Oh, relax," Crowley shrugged him off, clearly missing how he clung so tightly to the handle on the ceiling that his knuckles turned white. The demon took his hands off of the wheel to demonstrate some sort of a point, Aziraphale would never understand. "We aren't going to die. We can't! Not like this, anyway."

"No, but they can," Aziraphale remarked, eyes focusing on a specific elderly lady that Crowley had only just narrowly missed, and followed her until she was out of sight, a mere spec in the distance - which took about half a second, granted just how fast Crowley was driving. The man was out of his mind, utterly bonkers, at least if you asked Aziraphale.

"Oh, angel," Crowley called to him, uttering the nickname like it was something special - like he was something special - in a sickening sweet, sing-song voice. "I do like it when you get all protective."

Aziraphale was sure the remark was meant to be at least partially insulting, but as he watched Crowley's speed slowly decrease, the black hole in his stomach miraculously began to close up again, and he realised he had had an impact on the man, and the unspoken influence gave way to some insight inside the demon's mind.

**

Celebration. It was a word he heard so little these days, and an experience he had even less. Frequently, people would talk of celebration in a condescending way, but here, tonight, they actually can celebrate. They've prevented the immediate end of the world, for now at least, and they've tricked a couple of archangels into believing they're almighty beings. It won't last forever, he's sure, but they can drink alcohol that has no effect on them and call it a success for now.

"To Gabriel," Crowley remarks ironically, "and his final, lone brain cell."

Aziraphale gives him an obligatory look that tells him off, but speaks no words as he raises his glass from the counter and clinks it to Crowley's. The pair of them sip at the same time, then put their drinks back down in sync. It feels strange, but then the spell is over and Crowley's speaking again.

"You really need a new wardrobe," he scrunches his nose, making it abundantly clear that he disapproves of Aziraphale's fashion choices. "I'll take you shopping sometime soon, angel."

"No, thank you," Aziraphale can't help but laugh, his smile feeling almost painful after the stiffness of his lips lately. Life has been far too serious. "I'm not taking fashion advice from somebody that's just rolled straight out of AC/DC."

Crowley looks genuinely offended. "And I suppose your grandfather get-up is something much better? Hmm?"

Aziraphale gives him a look that's somewhere between 'I'm never talking to you again' to 'please never leave me, I'd miss this', and it almost seems to him that Crowley understands. He takes another sip of his drink, shaking his head, and the evening continues onward as Crowley apparently forgets all about the gravely upsetting scene that unfolded within moments of them being seated. Then, out of the blue, he leans over to Aziraphale, gets all up-close and personal, and poses a question, his eyes narrowed so that the angel knows he's deadly serious.

"Would you kiss me?"

Aziraphale, as he has been so many times over the countless years they've known each other, is left utterly astounded at this. His mouth falls open, and he briefly considers Crowley's somehow done the impossible and gotten himself drunk, then he shuts his mouth again. He quirks an eyebrow as he sees Crowley's eyes fall to his lips, resting there obviously, not caring to pretend like he's not thinking what they both - what they all - know he's thinking. It's dreadful, it's tasteless, and it's breathtakingly exciting for Aziraphale.

"Why on earth would you want to know that?" Even he's surprised by how cool he sounds, so unaffected by the demon's words. He watches Crowley's eyes return to his and, for a split second, he thinks his challenge might have been accepted, but then Crowley's falling back into his chair, leaving Aziraphale alone in his personal bubble, re-entering his own. And that, in that short, inexplicable outburst, is all they talk about on the matter.

**

They're hardly _sneaky_. To say the very least, subtlety isn't their forté, and to speak in more detail, they'd rather do things the easy way and make witnesses forget what they saw as opposed to planning even a little ahead to ensure they won't make a scene. That's why they're oh-so stealthily walking straight into this building, straight past those playing paint-ball. They have a little setback when Aziraphale's fine, beige-white coat gets painted blue, but with batted lashes and minimal words Crowley fixes that for him.

Finally inside, they begin to traverse the corridors. They can't say with great specifications what they're looking for, but they're pretty sure if they come across anything noteworthy it'll stick out pretty badly. In the mean time, they're bickering idly - well, strictly speaking Aziraphale is bickering with himself, because talking to Crowley about anything serious is like talking to a brick wall, but the phrase works much better in the first way.

He can't stop himself smiling when he finds out Crowley's addition to the ongoing paintball fight wasn't actual, criminal murder, but rather a kinder variation. He slows, then picks his pace back up again, finding it spectacularly difficult to keep up with the demon who seems to be trying his hardest to lose him.

"I think," he knows his voice is irritating as he speaks, because he wants it to be, "You're turning into a good person. Even just a little, Crowley, I'm making you better. You might be an actual angel this time next year-"

He's suddenly thrown against the wall. It feels nothing like it looks, because it feels painful. It's not exhilarating in the slightest, and he thinks he might have a concussion. That's something to add to the list of things they need to fix; he decides to add it just beneath 'stop the end of the world (permanently)'. For now, though, he spends his time watching Crowley, who's got his chest pressed flush against his, obviously trying to be intimidating. He's only half succeeding.

"Don't you ever presume to know what I am, angel," Aziraphale hasn't heard the endearing nickname be used in a less-than endearing situation yet, and it makes his ears prick up. He feels somewhat lost and, though he knows Crowley would never actually harm him, there's something undeniably scary about being in a vulnerable position like this. He doesn't like fighting - he never has - so Crowley has the ultimate upper hand; he could kill him if he wanted to.

Even so, the demon appears to freeze. He stops, not letting his grip on the angel's coat go, just watching him closely. Through the blackened glasses, Aziraphale can see the cat-like slits of his pupils. He thinks he's probably struck a nerve, what with Crowley being a fallen angel and such, but he can't quite see why the demon hasn't let him go yet. If he's going to hurt him, he'd have done it by now, as he would have let him go already if that was his intention.

It all clicks in Aziraphale's mind when Crowley's eyes visibly drop to his lips. A chorus of the single word - a drawn-out, breathy _oh_  - rings in his head, and he feels like he's in heaven again. There's no more words as Crowley presses his lips roughly to his, and even though the demon finally lets go of his jacket, he isn't planning on going anywhere any time soon.

Crowley tastes exactly as Aziraphale thought he would. There's a spice, something peppermint-y, but something that also feels as though it burns his tongue. In his mind, Aziraphale remarks rather comically that it's probably the imprint of hell itself, and that this is probably the final requirement of his own fall. There's a sense of irony in the whole situation that he chooses to ignore, and instead opts to relish the feelings that arise in the moment as he wraps his arms lazily around Crowley's neck, feeling subdued and watered-down. It's never been like this; he's never been like this.

"Sorry to interrupt such an intimate moment," an unfamiliar, female voice calls, and the two of them look down the hall.

They share a meaningful look, one that says 'we'll continue this later', and they part. As they begin to head down the corridor, Aziraphale can't help but feel giddy, all overwhelmed, touch-sensitive and tingling, unable to contain his excitement for 'later', whenever in the next million years that might be. After all, they did have all the time in the world, granted that they managed to stop the apocalypse; he had a new incentive to fight for now, and it was a worthy (albeit selfish) cause indeed.

**Author's Note:**

> apologies for any mistakes/things that don't make sense by the end of season 1! I've only recently started watching this show but felt so inspired, I just had to start writing. hope you enjoy regardless!
> 
> let me know what you thought/any ideas you have for future fics in the comments. always love reading them! :)


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